Light flickered from the kerosene lamp they’d set near the stool. Laurel closed her eyes again, desperately fighting off nausea. She wanted to get away from this cold, musty place to somewhere warm where she could lie down and wait for the sickening effects of the wine to wear off. Clasping her arms around her waist, she opened her eyes again.
Although her memory until this point was so clear, the next few moments had always remained a blur. All she recalled precisely was the girls chanting, “Bring forth your faithful servant—” A scream. Then flames leaping from the overturned lamp, devouring the bale of straw, licking up the legs of Faith’s jeans. Faith.
More screams erupted and suddenly Laurel realized Faith’s feet no longer rested on the bale. They dangled limply as she swung slowly back and forth, her head twisted to the right, her dazzling eyes wide.
The girls scattered as the fire spread, jumping higher up Faith’s legs. Horrified, Laurel scrambled forward. She heard someone shrieking “Laurel!” as she reached into the fire, grabbing at Faith, trying to get her feet back on the bale. But Faith’s legs were on fire and Laurel couldn’t touch them. “Faith,” she wailed. “Faith!”
Someone pulled her away. “Stop it, Laurel. She’s dead!”
“No!” Laurel sobbed.
“Yes. It’s too late. My God, look at your arms!” More milling, more screaming. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
“We can’t leave her!” Laurel cried.
“She’s dead!” Monica shouted. “Denise, grab Laurel. We have to go!”
The next few minutes were a kaleidoscope of images. The cold. Sleet pouring down, hissing as it hit the fire. Being half dragged back to the car. Monica starting the engine and shooting down the rutted country lane. Looking back to see part of the barn engulfed in flames that leaped angrily against the starless winter night.
Laurel jerked back to the present, realizing she was hyperventilating. She set down her cup of cold tea and forced herself to take long, slow breaths. Although she dreamed about that night frequently, she rarely allowed herself to think about it when she was awake. It would seem that after thirteen years, the memory should have dimmed, but it hadn’t. She still vividly recalled standing dazed in Angie’s bathroom while she applied antiseptic to Laurel’s burned hands and arms, then wrapped them in gauze and made her swallow a pill. “What is it?” Laurel had mumbled. “Antibiotic. I got a bunch of capsules out of Dad’s office.” “But your father’s a veterinarian,” Denise cried. “Sometimes animals take the same medicine as humans,” Angie answered. “These are safe. Laurel, you have to take one every eight hours until you run out of capsules. Laurel, are you listening to me?”
So she’d taken the pills, told her parents she’d spilled boiling water on her hands, carefully kept her arms covered, and stayed to herself for the next few days. She’d also kept her silence. They all had, even when the talk of the town was Faith Howard’s death. People were baffled at first. Although owners of the Pritchard farm had left on lights, they had not been home that night and hadn’t heard the screams of the girls. Everyone assumed Faith had been in the barn alone, which seemed inexplicable. Then the medical examiner announced that Faith was ten weeks pregnant. That’s when townspeople believed they understood what had happened. Faith, daughter of the fanatically religious Zeke Howard, was terrified of telling her father she was pregnant, and no doubt her boyfriend, Neil Kamrath, whom everyone considered a coldly intellectual oddball anyway, had refused to marry her. Faith, they thought, had intended to commit suicide by hanging herself. In her death throes, she’d kicked over the lantern and set the fire.
Laurel suffered agonies of guilt during all the gossip and speculation. She and the other Six of Hearts knew Faith hadn’t intended to kill herself. They should tell the truth, Laurel and Denise argued. But Monica argued more forcefully. “Look, do you realize what people in town would think of us if they knew what we were doing? God, we’d be dirt in their eyes. Worse than dirt. And we didn’t kill her. It was an accident. She was drunk. She slipped off that bale and when the rope jerked her neck, she kicked over the lantern, just like they’re saying.”
“But we should let people know she didn’t commit suicide,” Laurel maintained.
Monica had turned on her angrily. “If we tell the truth, we have to admit we ran off and left her.”
Denise looked stricken. “But she was already dead. You said so.”
“Exactly. I say so and I’m right. You saw the angle of her head, those blank eyes. She was on fire and she didn’t make a sound. But what if no one believes us? What if they think we murdered her?”
“Why would they think that?” Denise asked in an appalled voice.
“Why? Maybe because we were drunk.”
“They don’t know that.”
“They will if they do blood work on Faith’s body. They won’t think she was drunk and we weren’t. And how do we explain that noose around her neck?”
Denise’s fervor was flagging. “We say it was just a game. That’s all it was—a harmless game.”
“Brilliant, Denise. Is everyone going to think a harmless game involved sticking a girl’s head in a noose? No, we are not talking. We can’t. What happened wasn’t our fault but people won’t believe us. We could be charged with manslaughter or negiligent homicide. We could go to prison!” Everyone quailed. “Our lives will be ruined and for what? An accident! We’re innocent!”
Throughout the whole thing Crystal had not spoken. She’d only cried, silently, wrenchingly. And in the end they’d kept quiet as Monica told them to, even though poor Neil Kamrath suffered the derision of Wheeling residents. He’d gotten Faith pregnant, deserted her, and she’d killed herself, they thought. He was a pig, they said. Laurel had worried about him, but Monica said that was silly. He had an alibi for the night of Faith’s death. The police couldn’t prove he’d killed her, and in the autumn he would be going off to Harvard on scholarship. Until then he’d live through the gossip. It wasn’t like he’d ever tried to be popular. He didn’t seem to care what anyone thought of him. Meanwhile, the Six of Hearts disbanded and the remaining five had gone their own ways the next year, none retaining the innocence of youth, each bearing black memories of their friend’s terrible death.
Laurel pushed back her sweater sleeves. There were burn scars on her arms and hands, but they were so faint people rarely noticed them. It seemed to her that she’d tried valiantly to reach Faith through the fire, but if she had, wouldn’t the scars be worse? They were barely visible. Maybe her memory of her actions was blurred by the alcohol. Maybe she hadn’t tried hard to save her dearest friend at all.
The fire was burning low and Laurel pushed her sleeves down, realizing how chilly the living room had become. April and Alex were deeply asleep on the couch, Alex snoring lightly. Laurel wished she were sleepy, but she wasn’t.
She got up slowly so as not to disturb the dogs and wandered around the room. Woven rugs lay over the polished hardwood floors and the paneled walls bore oil paintings of local scenes done by her grandmother. Laurel knew the paintings could garner an impressive sum today, but no one in her family would have considered selling them. Usually she found the room warm and charming with its casual, rustic style. Tonight it seemed too big and full of dark corners. She wished she had something to divert her mind for a while. She had thought of Faith and the Six of Hearts far too much today.
Suddenly she remembered she hadn’t picked up the mail on her way in this evening. Looking for some diversion, she put on her coat, turned on the carriage lamp beside the front door, picked up a flashlight, and went outside.
The night was cold and clear. She turned on the flashlight and slowly made her way to the end of the gravel lane where her mailbox sat on a pole facing the county road. There was little traffic at this hour. The night was completely dark except for an icy crescent slice of moon. Laurel shivered and pulled her coat tighter around her. There was nothing frightening out here—no strange noises, no feeling of being
followed—but she still felt uneasy. She reached in the mailbox, pulled out several pieces of mail, and half walked, half ran back to the house.
Once inside she slammed the door and locked it. When both dogs leaped up, barking in alarm, she felt silly. “It’s all right,” she said soothingly to calm the pair. “There aren’t any intruders for you to attack.”
Whether April and Alex would actually attack anyone was questionable. Both tended to be gentle, almost fearful dogs. She’d always wondered if their nature had something to do with their being taken away from their mother too soon.
Feeling a bit calmer now that she was inside with the door securely locked, Laurel took off her coat and sat down with the mail. Her hands still trembled slightly. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Angie’s death was awful and Monica’s theory chilling, but Monica had no proof. Maybe the six and the heart on Angela’s mirror had been a coincidence. Maybe it hadn’t even been a heart at all, but some arcane, smeared symbol the police had mistaken for a heart.
While her thoughts whirled, Laurel sorted the mail absently. She’d opened three Christmas cards and a credit card bill when she came across a thick envelope with no return address. It was postmarked New York.
With a feeling of dread, she opened the envelope and withdrew a sheaf of paper with a six and a heart drawn in red ink. Her heart picking up speed, she unfolded the paper. Two photographs fell out.
The first was old, a small black and white photo of a smiling Faith Howard wearing a black sweater and a simple string of pearls. Faith’s school picture, Laurel thought, her eyes welling with tears. Then her gaze shifted to the second photo.
It was a color Polaroid shot of a body lying on white satin sheets, the features grotesquely crushed and bloody beneath a mass of long, black hair.
Three
1
Although Laurel crept into bed about an hour after opening the mail, she spent most of the night staring blindly at the television, unable to concentrate on any of the movies shown on cable.
Now she knew that Monica was not imagining someone was after the Six of Hearts. The Polaroid shot had been of Angie’s mutilated body. Certainly it wasn’t a police photograph. The killer must have taken it right after the murder.
Laurel shivered and drew the down comforter higher. The only bodies most people ever saw were embalmed, dressed nicely, made up in a semblance of life, lying in quiet repose in satin-lined caskets. She, on the other hand, had watched a girl swinging from a rope with fire climbing up her body. Now she’d seen a photo of a brutally beaten corpse. What made it worse was that both bodies had belonged to friends.
Faith’s death had been an accident—a horrifying accident. But Angela’s wasn’t. What kind of person could bludgeon someone, stand over them and strike again and again until nothing remained but a bloody mass, then calmly take a photograph to send to her?
A person who knew about the Six of Hearts. A person seeking revenge for their part in Faith’s death. Who was to be the next victim? Herself? Is that what receiving the photos meant?
Laurel finally drifted off to sleep around four in the morning. At seven she nearly leaped from the bed when the alarm went off. The previous three hours had been filled with bad dreams. She was relieved daylight had come at last.
Two hours later she saw Mary do a double take when she came into the store. “Laurel, are you sure you’re feeling all right? You didn’t look well yesterday and you look even worse today.”
“Thank you.”
Mary flushed in embarrassment. “Oh, Laurel, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Laurel forced a smile. “You didn’t. I haven’t been feeling great the last couple of days.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I sat up and watched about twenty movies last night. At least it seemed like that many. I’m going to get another cup of coffee. I think I’ll need regular infusions of caffeine to keep me going today.”
Mary followed her to the kitchen. “If you need to go home, I’m sure we can manage.”
“No you can’t. We have too much work to do. I’ll be fine.”
Shortly afterward she called the wholesalers and ordered the flowers they would need for that day. News of Angela’s murder had been in the evening paper and no doubt calls would begin flooding in for arrangements, although times for the viewing and funeral were not set because the New York police had not yet released the body.
She was taking an order on the phone when Crystal Landis rushed in, setting the bell on the front door clanging. “Laurel, I’ve got to talk to you,” she said breathlessly.
Laurel held up a finger indicating Crystal should wait a minute. Can’t she see I’m on the phone? Laurel thought. But Crystal was clearly overwrought. She wore an ugly plaid coat that looked as if it had been made from a horse blanket. Laurel knew it hid a body that had recently gained about ten pounds. The hair she’d once kept golden with artificial color had been allowed to return to its natural dishwater blond and was cut in an unflattering short style. The pretty little-girl face had aged before its time, three lines slicing deeply across her forehead, nasal labial folds beginning to appear, blue eyes looking perpetually worried and disillusioned.
Early in life, Crystal had seemed blessed. Her family had money and lived in one of the largest houses in town. Crystal was pretty and popular, an only child whose parents doted on her and denied her nothing. But things changed before she reached twenty. She married Chuck Landis, the old friend of Laurel, Kurt, and Faith. She’d been in love with him since her early teens, and Laurel understood why. He was the golden boy—handsome, charming, the school’s star quarterback. Unfortunately, adulthood dulled his luster. In spite of the academic allowances made for athletes, during his second year he flunked out of the college that had recruited him for his football skills. Only months later, Crystal’s parents were killed in a plane crash and, to everyone’s surprise, they left barely anything. Her father’s reckless investments had landed the family on the verge of bankruptcy. Everything had to be sold to pay estate taxes. Suddenly penniless and humiliated, Crystal had dropped out of college and she and Chuck returned to Wheeling where they moved into a tiny, dilapidated house owned by Chuck’s grandmother. Afterward Chuck bounced from job to job while Crystal suffered three miscarriages. Finally, six months ago, after the stillbirth of their daughter, Chuck left Crystal for an attractive older divorcée named Joyce Overton. Crystal was devastated and looked five years older than she had before his desertion.
Laurel hung up and looked at Crystal. “Sorry, but I had to get that order.”
“You know about Angie getting murdered,” Crystal said bluntly.
“Yes. I tried to call you last night but you weren’t home.”
“I went to a movie.” Crystal leaned across the counter. “Can you leave for a little while? I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Crystal, we’re awfully busy—” She broke off. Crystal looked almost frantic. “Why don’t we go down the street for coffee and pastry?”
“I don’t care. Anywhere.”
Laurel told Mary she was leaving for half an hour, grabbed her coat, and hurried out with Crystal. Minutes later, as they sat over French vanilla coffee and croissants in a secluded corner of a nearby café, Crystal blurted, “What do you know about Angie’s death?”
“Monica called me yesterday morning. She knows a detective working on Angie’s case. He told her the police found a six and a heart drawn on Angie’s mirror in her blood. She thinks the murder has something to do with the Six of Hearts.”
Crystal blanched. “Did she tell the police?”
“No.” Laurel looked at Crystal closely. “What’s the matter? You’re not this upset over Angie’s death.”
“No. I mean, her getting murdered is terrible but…” She trailed off and lifted her coffee cup to her lips with trembling hands. “Laurel, I got something in the mail about an hour ago. It was postmarked New York.” Laurel felt the breath go out of her as Crystal fumbled
in her purse and withdrew an envelope. She handed it to Laurel. “Look inside.”
Laurel really didn’t need to look, but she couldn’t stop herself from pulling out a sheet of paper. A six and a heart were drawn in red, probably with a felt tip pen. Inside the paper was the school picture of Faith and the color Polaroid. Crystal pointed a shaking finger at the Polaroid shot. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes, I believe it’s Angie.” Crystal made a small choking noise. “I got a package just like this yesterday,” Laurel said.
Crystal’s pale lips opened. “What? You, too?” Laurel nodded. “Where did this awful picture of Angie come from?”
“I’d say from the murderer.”
“Oh, Laurel, that can’t be!” Crystal burst out.
“Shhhh!” Laurel glanced around, then spoke softly. “Do you have any other suggestions about where it came from? I’m sure the New York police didn’t send it.”
“But why is Faith’s picture with it?”
“Monica told me the police found a tarot card lying beside Angie’s body. It was the judgment card. Considering the six and the heart on the mirror and the picture of Faith we received, I’d say someone is saying judgment is being wreaked on us because of Faith’s death.”
Crystal reached out and took Laurel’s wrist. “No one knew about our club or that we were there when Faith…died.”
“I believe someone does know.” Laurel didn’t think it was possible for Crystal to lose any more color in her face, but she did. “Crystal, Monica is as worried as we are. She’s coming to Wheeling today to talk with you, Denise, and me.”
Crystal looked alarmed. “I don’t want to talk to Monica!”
“Why not?”
“Because….” Her gaze dropped. “Because she always scared me.”
“Oh, Crystal, don’t be silly. I know she dominated us a long time ago but we’re adults now.”
In the Event of My Death Page 4